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Rain keeps falling, tears keep falling...
Hannah's POV:
Have you ever thought, maybe there's a reason you and Billie never worked?
Cause the universe fucking hates us.
Exactly.
I bury my head under a flat, off-white pillow, as if it could block the thoughts and conversations bouncing off the walls of my room that feels no different than my prison cell, if not worse. Prison is for keeping you away from the rest of the world, but here I'm supposed to get better, whatever that means. It's like I'm being torn in half, a part still clinging onto Billie even though I pulled the plug on us, and a newer part of me searching for answers to questions I don't want to ask.
My 'therapist' is only leading me towards one option: forget about Billie and get better, and even though I know it's bullshit, your environment can take words and shove them into your brain and not let you out. So each day I'm in here that passes, it gets harder to call bullshit, and easier to accept what they say just to stop fighting myself every second.
The half of me still holding to Billie constantly reminds me of when she went through therapy, of how she felt and how she took it out on me, how that made me feel. And I wouldn't want to do that to her. But I already did, I told her to let me go, and she's not here, so maybe she did. Maybe I should stop calling bullshit and trying to retrace my steps to reignite a flame I blew out for a reason.
And I just can't keep on fighting...
~
Billie's POV:
"Just tell me," I snap, walking into the kitchen for breakfast in the morning to my parents and Finneas exchanging secretive looks.
"The place Hannah's at, it's a mental hospital, Billie... And they've placed her on a 72-hour watch, and she's not allowed any visitors," my mom breaks the news and the coffee mug slips between my fingers, splattering liquid and ceramic shards across the floor.
"Why," I barely move, letting one word out only to be met with more uncomfortable glances between the three of them. I don't have time or patience for people trying to protect me because they think I'm fragile, if I was so fragile, I would be completely broken by now.
"She's been... in their words 'unresponsive to therapy'," my dad finishes because my mom looks too drained and exhausted to say it. My fists clench but I let them go, shrug, and walk away from another mess I created without looking back this time.
I close the door and remind myself to breathe, and I don't even cry a single tear. Sometimes when sadness becomes your normal state and happiness just an occasional summer vacation, you get better at handling it. Not in the way that it gets easier or you get stronger, but you keep your expectations for life so low that they can't be broken. Other people can't let me down if I don't bring myself up to a level I can get dropped from.
